There is nothing more frightening than staring at an empty page at two in the morning, wondering what you are doing with your life and why you can't think of anything to write about.
Let me play doctor for a moment. Do you match the symptoms above? Then let me diagnose you with a highly common disease-writer's block.
What? you gasp. I'm not sick!
Think again, I say. What are you writing about right now?
That puts an end to your protests. You look worried, your hands are cold and clammy, and thoughts are rolling through your head at a breakneck pace. You're shuddering in disgust and concern that you are suffering from such a terrible disease.
So... (and here comes the inevitable question) what can I do about it? you ask nervously. Chick-flicks? Sleep? Perhaps some vitamin W (writing)?
I scoff. There is no cure.
What? comes the indignant shout. What do you mean, there is no cure? Your statement is followed by hysterical weeping, screaming, fainting, or swearing-choose whatever applies to you the most.
I hold up a hand. There's a healing process.
But you said there was no cure, you say, still a bit hysterical.
Healing process and cure are two different things. I say.
You have a slightly irritated expression on your face as you sarcastically drawl out, Okay, then, so what can I do to get better, Doc?
Ignore it, I say. Go on vacation. Go play Pokemon Go. Put down your computer. Log out of this site. And just live life.
Just live life? You repeat, confused. For my fellow dramatics, you might swoon, and say, dramatically, hand clasped over heart, Writing is life. Life is writing. How? How can I live without touching my beloved keyboard and writing my stories, my children? HOW?!
It will come to you. Eventually, one day, you'll suddenly jerk awake with a half-formed story plot in your mind. Perhaps you'll wake up in the middle of the night, or while you're swimming. And that's (dramatic pause) when you know that you have been cured.
I still don't get this, you say, trying to get your money's worth out of the visit to my (imaginary) clinic, or perhaps trying to clear the air. You're saying we just ignore it until it just... comes back?
Live. Life. I repeat, firmly.
Your sarcastic side shows up. Great advice, Doc, you sneer.
I simply smile, and shove you out of my office, waving.
Your eyes widen. Wait, wait, I still have some questions, you plead desperately.
Have a good day! is my response.
I said, good day! with that, I slam the door shut.
Your indignant response follows: I'll be sure to rate this 0 stars on Yelp and write a negative review as well! You stomp off, satisfied that at least you had the last say.